Sift the rumours
through the slit of the nib;
Sing your sermons backwards.
Wear that wet plastic raincoat
over your bare, bruised skin
and read that testament.
It’s grainy and grassy at the same time.
Fluid yet tentative, blindly turning the rings
on the number lock.
Bleeding an empty bleed,
not quite red nor visible.
Yet viscous and singeing on skin.
Let the neurons collect
under the porous, night-time sky
and drop their leaden necks.
There must be a star somewhere,
reserved for sighting on such moments.
Let’s look skywards.